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“I need you to do me a favor.”
When Asaba Harumasa whispers those words to you across your shared desks at the Section Six office, hand cupped around his mouth for emphasis, eyes glittering with mischief, you can’t help but brace yourself for whatever ensuing trouble he’s going to drag you into.
“What’s the favor?” you respond evenly. “If it’s to convince Yanagi to accept your request for time off, I’m not going to do that.”
“It’s not that!” Harumasa insists. “But it’s about something that’s important for the well-being of Section Six.”
You glance around the room; Soukaku is doodling with crayons on some confidential reports, Miyabi has left for a meeting with the rest of the section chiefs (and you can guarantee that she isn’t paying any attention), and Yanagi is steadfastly working through a towering stack of papers on her desk, so high that you can barely make out the top of her head. No one is paying attention to the two of you.
“Well, what is it then?” you say, and Harumasa casts a furtive glance at Yanagi before leaning closer to you, bracing his elbow on your desk. He’s enjoying himself a little too much, you can’t help but feel, what with how his smile curls like a satisfied cat.
“We need to meet up on our day off, preferably in the morning and somewhere near Lumina Square,” he says conspiratorially. “It’s too risky to pull off here. But it’s important, partner, so make sure you’re not late.”
“If it’s something that’s important for Section Six,” you whisper, tilting your own head closer to the shell of his ear, “Maybe it’s something that we should bring up to the others. What is it? Some illicit venture into a Hollow? Should I call Phaenton, too?”
“There’s no need for all of that,” Harumasa says hastily. “You only need to bring yourself. Maybe a disguise,” he adds, “to avoid public notice. This is a confidential mission. I’m relying on you.”
You let out a small sigh. Visions of curling up on your couch tomorrow, browsing through books with a mug of warm, sweet tea vanish in front of your eyes. “Fine. I’ll be there. But you owe me for dragging me out on our only day off.”
“I’ll make it worth your time, I promise.” Harumasa has the audacity to wink at you, like you’ve agreed to some ridiculous, under-the-table deal.
Maybe you have. It certainly feels like it when you drag yourself out of bed the next morning, donning sunglasses, a long, caramel-colored coat buttoned up to your neck, and pulling a hat low over your head to complete the look. You’re out the door and on the train to Lumina Square before ten minutes have passed.
You’re set to meet Harumasa at some nondescript corner of the square, an alley boxed in by towering buildings and mostly hidden from view. What does he have in store for you? Despite the playful attitude he had yesterday when asking you for help, there was also something serious underpinning his words, even as he tried to pass it off as a flight of fancy. Harumasa would never ask you for help unless it was something important.
You’re certain that you’ll have to wait for Harumasa to show up a few minutes late, making some slap-fash excuse. To your surprise, he’s already waiting for you. You almost can’t recognize him at first. He’s forgone his usual headband; instead, he’s wearing a hoodie, a cap, and a facemask, slouching against the wall, staring aimlessly at the sky.
“Harumasa?” you say.
At your voice, Harumasa immediately straightens, lifting himself off the wall. You can hear the smile in his voice, even if you can’t see it. “There you are!”
“You’re early,” you say. “I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”
Harumasa slings a casual arm around your shoulder. “Well, I didn’t want to miss our date. But don’t let Yanagi know that I’m capable of showing up on time, okay?”
“It’s not a date,” you say, lowering your sunglasses to give him an unimpressed stare, “It’s a mission. Or so you claim.”
“It is,” he says. “Come with me. I’ll show you our place of operations.”
Harumasa still has his arm around your shoulders, but you don’t shake him off as he leads you confidently through alleys and down back roads, avoiding the bustle of crowds in the main section of the city. The breeze is cool, the sunlight warm on your face againsr the winter’s chill.
Eventually, the two of you stop in front of a hospital, a towering construction of shining metal and glass reflecting squares of blue sky. People bustle in and out of the sliding front doors, letting out gusts of sharp, chemically scented air.
Harumasa is silent as he stares up at the building, his hat shading his eyes. You can’t make out his expression, but you lean your head on his shoulder, a brief, reassuring touch.
He seems to come back to himself, then, and Harumasa’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he resumes talking in a clear, casual voice, “So, this is where our mission is taking place. Here’s the gist of it: I need you to pretend to be my spouse.”
“What?”
“Come on,” he wheedles. “I’ve been avoiding coming here for a while, but they’re not taking my excuses anymore. And they wanted me to bring a family member over to verify some things.”
“You could have just said so from the beginning,” you say. “I was beginning to think you wanted us to infiltrate somewhere.”
“If you think about it, we technically are,” Harumasa muses. “Besides, isn’t it more fun if I tell you we’re on a mission, instead of just giving everything away? Also, this is necessary to Section Six; what are they going to do without their star Executive Officer?”
The arm around your shoulder is shaking imperceptibly; sometime during his words, his grip has tightened, just slightly, as if he’s clinging to you to keep from sliding down a cliff. The unspoken truths hover in the air: that you’re the only one in Section Six who knows about his Ether Regression Aptitude Syndrome, and that he can’t ask anyone else to help him for this.
“Why your spouse, though?” you say instead. “Why not just say I’m a distant relation? You could also just not specify what our relationship is.”
“Because it’s more fun for me,” Harumasa replies. Typical.
Within the next few minutes, the two are checking in at the front desk after a brief wait, Harumasa wading through tedious paperwork and bureaucracy and health insurance forms with clipboards and pens that click more than necessary.
“Make sure to tell the doctor I’m here with my spouse,” Harumasa emphasizes, tapping the clipboard with his pen. He slides his arm around you, drawing you closer to him, and you try to resist the urge to pull away and keep your face schooled in a neutral, pleasant expression.
“All right, Mr. Asaba,” the receptionist chirps. “He’ll be out to see you in a bit!”
The waiting room is filled with rows of yellow and white plastic chairs, carpeting worn by the tread of countless anxious patients, and stacks of old magazines on tables and televisions mounted on the walls playing a cheesy blockbuster with the voices muted. A bored child plays with the hospital’s block toys on the floor, his mother talks quietly into her phone in front of him, and an elderly man flips through a magazine, his cane resting on his lap.
You and Harumasa settle into your seats, side by side. In the space between, where your hands dangle, his knuckles brush against the back of your hand before he draws your hand into his. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow become his stress ball, something he needs to touch to ground himself.
“Still holding up alright?” Harumasa whispers. “You cleared the first hurdle.”
“Maybe I should be asking you that,” you whisper back. “Are you okay?”
“I’m used to it.” At times like this, you wish you could see Harumasa’s mouth, because his eyes betray nothing.
Still, when the receptionist finally calls out, “Asaba Harumasa, the doctor’s here to see you,” you don’t let go of Harumasa’s hand. The doctor is stocky and short, with tired, drooping eyes, and he frowns when he sees Harumasa.
The three of you start walking down the hall, the doctor setting a rapid pace as he lectures Harumasa. “You’ve been avoiding my calls for the past week. Do you know how hard it is to get in contact with you? Proper medical care requires consistency!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Harumasa says without sounding sorry at all, but he seems more focused on swinging your joined hands together like a child on a swing set.
In the doctor’s office, the two of you are finally separated as Harumasa perches on the examination table. You’re sitting in a guest chair lined up against the wall across from him. The doctor moves through standard physical procedures with a deft, practiced hand. Harumasa follows along easily, thoughtlessly, as if these processes are second nature: the lights shining in his eyes, the blood pressure cuff around his arm, the routine questions.
However, whenever the doctor is distracted recording results or marking down Harumasa’s answers, Harumasa will pull down his mask and make faces at you, to which you’ll respond with a roll of your eyes or your own exaggerated expressions of annoyance.
“Have you been resting well?” the doctor asks sternly, turning back around just as the two of you quickly settle into more typical expressions. “You’re not pushing yourself at work, I hope?”
“I haven’t,” Harumasa says, with wide eyes.
“Hmpth.” The doctor turns to you. “Well? Is he being truthful? As his spouse, I trust you’ll be honest for the sake of his health.” Behind the doctor’s back, Harumasa strikes you with an expression of mock disbelief, raising his eyebrows dramatically. It’s almost enough to make you laugh, but you control the tremor of your lips.
“He hasn’t been pushing himself hard at all,” you say smoothly. “If anything, I think my husband has been resting a little too well.”
“All right. And your medications, Mr. Asaba? Have you been taking them properly?”
“Right as instructed, every morning and night,” Harumasa says. “My lovely spouse would know. They’ve seen me dutifully take all of them.”
“He has,” you verify. From what you know, anyways, Harumasa never misses a dosage.
The doctor peppers Harumasa with more health-related questions and logs down all his answers. It’s over before you know it, and Harumasa leaps off the table as soon as the doctor puts away his clipboard.
“I’ve missed you, cutie,” he says, throwing his arms around you like you haven’t seen him in months, snuggling up to you as the doctor watches with a weary expression.
“The two of you get along well,” he says stoically.
“Oh, we do,” Harumasa chirps.
“Make sure to make a follow-up appointment, Mr. Asaba. Your health appears stable, and your symptoms haven’t worsened.”
“I’ll make sure he does,” you supply, shooting a quick, withering glance at Harumasa, who only gives you a pleading expression in return. “He won’t be late to the next appointment.”
“I appreciate that, Mx…?” the doctor trails off questioningly.
“Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa interjects. “That’s their name.”
“That’s right,” you say. “Thank you for your time today.”
Harumasa wraps his arm around your waist, giving the doctor a lazy wave, and then the two of you are through the door, down the hall, and out of the hospital. Once you’re a street away, Harumasa finally speaks.
“You were excellent there, Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa says.
“Of course I was. Though you don’t need to call me that.”
“Why? I think it has a nice ring to it,” he muses. “Mx. Asaba and Mr. Asaba.”
“I was serious about what I said back there, you know,” you say. “You need to make your follow-up appointment soon. And you should try to show up to it on time.”
“You’re so strict. What if I need you to come with me again to feel better?”
“Then just tell me when, and where,” you say. “If you need me there, then I’ll be there, no matter what.”
A brief flicker of surprise lights across his face, before it smooths out into his usual relaxed smile. “You’re soooo good to me, Mx. Asaba. Since you went out of your way today to help me with such a confidential mission, let me treat you to some food!”
“I suppose that’s what a good spouse should do,” you say.
Harumasa’s arm is still around your waist, but you can’t bring yourself to shake it off as he enthusiastically guides you to whatever restaurant he has in mind. His grip is casual, loose enough that you could shrug it off if you really want to. But if you do, then he’d never pull close to you like again.
Harumasa is attentive in that way. If you set a line, then he would never cross it. All his jokes feel like a casual calculation of the distance between the two of you. How far is he allowed to go? How much are you willing to put up with? What’s the boundary of your relationship?
It’s like he’s waiting for rejection, offering you the chance to push away from him in a way that would make it easier for both of you. The way he touches you is akin to possession, but from a man who’s afraid to say he deserves to call you his.
Yet, if you push a little too close, more than he’s comfortable with, then he’ll run away like a skittish cat, afraid your affection will turn to boredom or cruelty. You’ve been with him long enough to understand this. So you’ll play along with his jokes, his little white little lies and deceptions, if it’s the only way he’ll let you stay close to him.
It’s a date, or a confidential mission, or whatever excuse Harumasa wants to use. What a complicated, beloved partner you have.
“We’re here,” Harumasa says. You’re at a ramen shop, with low stalls pulled up the counter, the simmering heat and steam from the kitchen feeling like a miniature summer. Thankfully, it’s empty, but your disguises ensure that neither your nor Harumasa’s fans will bother you for pictures and autographs in either case.
“Order whatever you want,” he says, and you pick up the laminated menu, browsing through the various options. “Oh, wait. Pose for a second.”
Harumasa pulls out his phone, opening the camera, and aims it in your direction. You make a quick peace sign, menu held aloft in your other hand, and the shutter snaps. “What’s that for?”
“You looked nice,” he says. “I’ll send it to you later.”
“I didn’t realize you liked photography.”
“It’s a good way to preserve things that are fleeting, but important to you,” he says. “Moments that won’t last, people that might leave. Things like that.”
“Are you planning on divorcing me already?” you ask, propping your chin on your hand, peering at him over the top of your sunglasses.
Harumasa places a hand over his heart. “Me? Never.”
The two of you place an order for ramen, and it doesn’t take long for the noodles to arrive. It’s simple, but delicious: hearty, flavorful broth, bamboo shoots, seaweed, fish cakes, slices of charred, fatty pork, and an egg with a jammy yolk.
Neither of you talk as you sit in silence, slurping noodles and drinking spoonfuls of broth. It’s been a while since you’ve gone out for a meal like this, and even longer since you did so with someone that wasn’t some sort of business partner or official whose good graces you need to stay in.
You glance up with a mouthful of noodles to find Harumasa watching you, chopsticks in hand, a small smile on his face, as if he’s never seen anything so charming, his own ramen forgotten. Your face burns for reasons you don’t want to identify; you’re only thankful he doesn’t ask for another picture.
Harumasa lets out a sigh of appreciation when he’s done, placing his chopsticks neatly over his finished bowl. “Soukaku once cleared out almost all the noodles in this place, did you know that? I’ve been meaning to go ever since she told me.”
“Did it match your expectations?”
“I don’t normally like heavy food, but this time, I didn’t mind it,” he says. “Or maybe it’s because you looked like you enjoyed it a lot. It made me appreciate this bowl more.”
“Smooth-talker,” you say. “If you’re done, should we head back–”
“Wait, there’s somewhere else we should go,” Harumasa interrupts, holding up a hand. “We need dessert after a meal, don’t you think?”
“Really? A dessert? What are you thinking of getting?” you ask.
“There’s a popular drink shop around here. They serve milk tea in these cute little Bangboo shaped cups,” Harumasa begins. “I thought it might be fun to check it out.”
“I thought you hated sweet things,” you supply. The two of you stand, and you smooth down your coat as Harumasa adjusts his facemask. You’re ambling down the street again, but this time, you loop your arm through his, pulling him close. It’s an effortless gesture, and it’s startling how easy it is to press so close to him.
“Well, you don’t,” he returns. “And it’s a popular date spot too. Can’t I take my lovely spouse out some more?”
You bump him with your hip. There’s no need to keep up your pretense anymore. There’s no one else here to listen to your lies. Both of you know this, but you can’t bring yourself to state the obvious. If you point out the script, then the curtain will fall and the play will end, your fragile happiness disappearing as the actors take a final bow. “Sure, if you keep paying.”
The two of you end up in front of an inconspicuous milk tea shop. There’s no outdoor or indoor seating, but there is a counter and a blackboard with the menu chalked in, alongside doodles of smiling Bangboo holding milk tea on the side. A tired salesgirl stands in front, her expression at odds with her bubblegum pink uniform. There’s a few teenagers milling nearby, hands cupped around their milk tea and conversing in giggles.
Harumasa tilts his head as he looks at the menu, hanging above the two of you. “They sell iced coffee here,” he muses. “I thought this was a milk tea place.”
“They probably want to offer a variety of drinks for people who might not like milk tea,” you supply.
“What are you getting?”
“The Bangboo special milk tea,” you say immediately. “It’s their speciality, and it comes with a Bangboo shaped cup. If it’s cute, I might take it home and wash it so I can reuse it”
He eyes you with amusement as the two of you approach the counter, where Harumasa slides his card across the counter. You make a note to treat him out to dinner at some point; as much as you tease, it wouldn’t sit right with you if you didn’t return the favor. “One iced espresso and a Bangboo special milk tea for me and my spouse, please.”
“Got it.” The salesgirl doesn’t bat an eye as Harumasa leans against you, his eyes crinkling at the corners like a pleased cat.
It doesn’t take long for your drinks to arrive. Your milk tea is in the shape of a Bangboo’s head, and topped with a pile of jellies over delicately set tiers of differing flavors. You take a sip, and you’re flooded with a creamy, milky sweetness.
Harumasa, who hasn’t even taken a sip of his espresso yet, looks amused as he watches you. “Let me try some of yours.”
“You won’t like it,” you protest, but Harumasa is already pulling down his face mask and leaning towards you. You raise your drink to let him take a quick sip.
He licks his top lip in thoughtful contemplation. “Way too sweet.”
“I told you. Now give me some of yours,” you say. “It’s only fair.”
He obliges without protest, tilting his straw towards you. You take a quick sip, but it’s cold and bitter. You wrinkle your nose; you’re no stranger to coffee, especially when shifts run late into the night, but you still like to add creamer and sugar to take the edge off.
“Coffee is an acquired taste for true adults,” Harumasa says when he sees your expression. “Maybe I’m just a bit more mature than you.”
“Sweetness is also an acquired taste,” you quip. “It’s good to learn to enjoy the sweet things in life.”
“Maybe it is. Oh, wait. Before you finish your drink. Let’s take another picture.” Harumasa pulls out his phone again, and you don’t protest as he raises it and angles it down towards the two of you. You raise your cup, and Harumasa lopes his arm around yours, locking the two of you together.
With a few press of his thumb, he’s done, and lowers the phone for your inspection. You examine yourself the same way a stranger might; the two of you huddled up together, Harumasa’s cheeks red from the cold, your lips drawn into a smile, looking almost like the married couple you’re pretending to be.
“You look cute as usual,” Harumasa comments. “But it makes me look bad. I’ve got to stop taking pictures with you.”
“That’s not my fault,” you protest.
“Of course it isn’t. You can’t help being the cutest person in the world.”
You’re saved from thinking up a response that won’t betray your own embarrassment by the curious giggles of the teenagers across from you. They keep glancing furtively from you to Harumasa, hands cupped over their mouths. You can hear whispers of “Section Six” and “celebrities” which doesn’t bode well for your current anonymity.
Swiftly, you grab Harumasa’s hand and start pulling him away from the cafe, down the streets of Lumina Square. The winter sun has started to droop in the sky, painting the world in a vivid, melting, yolky light. Laughter drifts around you from people lost in their own worlds.
You’re not sure where you’re going, only certain on heading away from anyone who can recognize you. Harumasa follows along gamely, your willing accomplice.
You fly up a flight of stairs and you’re suddenly on the walkway above the streets, the city stretching out below you, buildings stacked like decadent cakes, people little figurines trotting carelessly by.
You’re far away from everyone else now, cocooned in your own world. Harumasa’s fingers squeezes yours playfully, and suddenly you’re aware of how his hand feels in yours, warm skin and calluses from his bow and reassuringly slender fingers wrapped around your own.
You drop his hand, finally, and take a sip of your own drink, which is sweet, so sweet, as Harumasa walks up to the railing and braces his elbow against the metal.
“You’ve been taking a lot of pictures of me today,” you say.
“I want to treasure every moment we have together,” Harumasa says, without turning. A cool breeze stirs, sending his hair fluttering, his clothes rippling.
He’s unfair when he talks like this, the tenderness in his voice making your heart ache over the inevitable future, a predetermined ending. Like he’ll slip through your fingers as easily as water at any moment.
You pull out your phone, swipe to your camera, and raise it to frame Harumasa in the center, backlit by the glow of the sun and the tart light from the windows of buildings around you.
“Look over here,” you call, and Harumasa turns. He’s beautiful, so beautiful it hurts. “Strike a pose.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one taking a picture?” he asks.
“I want to remember you,” you say. “Forever.”
Harumasa tilts his head back. “Me?”
“You’re not the only one who wants to cherish every moment we spend together.”
Harumasa slowly pulls down his face mask, and you can finally see his smile, more brilliant than the sun behind him, flooding through your nerves and filling every part of you with a warm light.
You press your phone’s camera shutter, once, twice, immortalizing Harumasa for as long as you can. You lower your phone, and join him at the railing, looking down below at the peace you’ve both fought so hard to protect.
The world is filled with such endless cruelty and stunning beauty in equal measure. And yet, it’s the only world you have. You tap your fingers against the railing, a nonsensical song.
“For your next appointment, maybe we should try a different restaurant when you’re done,” you say. “And we can walk around and take more pictures. There’s a few art installations around.”
“You sure you want to come back with me? You’ll have to pretend to be Mx. Asaba again, you know.”
“I don’t mind,” you murmur. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“If you talk like that, you’ll make me want to make it official…. Of course, I’m kidding,” he adds before the words can linger for too long.
“Have you thought about getting married?” you ask.
“I couldn’t do that to someone,” he responds lightly. “Besides, it’d be bad for PR. You know how intense our fan clubs can get.”
Of course, you understand. Marriage is an alien thought for a job where you risk your life everyday fighting against Ethereals and venturing into Hollows. You barely have enough time for yourself after long shifts and overtime and late nights, ready to be called into action at the slightest emergency. Could you bear to leave behind someone you love under the circumstances? Could they bear waiting and worrying for you? You would never be able to provide them any form of normalcy.
“Leaving someone behind like that… I don’t think I could do it. Or ask them to understand why I can’t give them an ordinary life,” you say.
“Right, right. I wouldn’t want to make my partner cry,” he says. “I knew you would get it.”
His eyes gleam, two precious pieces of gold. Of course. Neither of you are capable of an ordinary relationship. Whatever the two of you have right now, whatever form you let it take, can’t be named. Something will break if you try.
Carefully, delicately, you lean your head against his shoulder. He stiffens only momentarily before relaxing, a silent affirmation of your presence. Below, cars rush by, the misty glow of streetlights winking into life as the sky darkens.
“I’ll let you know when I have my next appointment,” he says, voice carrying like the wind.
“All right. I’ll be sure to make the time for you, Mr. Asaba.”
He laughs, a low, soft sound. “Thank you, Mx. Asaba. I knew I could rely on you.”
And it’s nice, like this. For just a while longer, you can forget anything that’s happened before, or anything that might happen in the future. Right now, it’s just you, and him, together.